Black Ice

For so much of life things seem to be a melange, made from shades of grey. Personally, it is often getting amongst it (it being horticulture) that adds colour to the world.

This Christmas was a dose of far brighter, whiter stuff, and I don’t just mean the snow. We had a blinding time.

Though for every ying exists a yang and there was a thread of darkness that tainted what was otherwise one of my most enjoyable Christmases.

I can’t say much about it, as it’s likely that I’ll be in court as a witness. Briefly – a pervert tried to do something vile. My sudden appearance thankfully stopped the nonce, leaving a safe but terrified little girl. A dark, dark act for Christmas Day.

I feel a weight of responsibility to see justice done, and a sense of latent horror about what might have happened if I hadn’t arrived on the scene when I did.

It has affected me more than I would have imagined and I need to stop thinking about it.

But how?

Garden books, seed catalogues, and RHS college work seem to me as dead as autumn’s leaf fall, and have not been able to engage me, no matter how much I’ve tried .

Normally I would take myself outside and got stuck into something in the garden, returning grounded and purged some hours later.